


Sweet Defeat

by SaintOlga



Series: The Twink of the Revolutionary Set [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintOlga/pseuds/SaintOlga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his long career, general Washington has won a lot of battles, and has known surrender and defeat as well. He should have known the impending defeat on the first night Alexander Hamilton asks him, quietly, how the general deals with the freezing cold of the winter when the fuel and the blankets are both scarce. When he suggests, with words so carefully chosen that the offer doesn’t offend, that if the general were so willing, if he doesn’t find the idea of sharing a tent and a bed with a lowly aide repulsive, Hamilton would be honored to serve his general in any way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Defeat

In his long career, general Washington has won a lot of battles, and has known surrender and defeat as well. He should have known the impending defeat on the first night Alexander Hamilton asks him, quietly, how the general deals with the freezing cold of the winter when the fuel and the blankets are both scarce. When he mentions that the officers are sleeping two and three to bed not just for the lack of beds, but for the shared warmth. When he expresses his worry that the general, who for his status is resting in solitude in his tent, might be lacking the small comforts that those in lower ranks manage to find in these abysmal conditions.

When he suggests, with words so carefully chosen that the offer doesn’t offend, that if the general were so willing, if he doesn’t find the idea of sharing a tent and a bed with a lowly aide repulsive, Hamilton would be honored to serve his general in any way possible.

There has been no innuendo in his words then, Washington is sure of it; just an innocent offer of camaraderie, like the soldiers sharing food and cover. He also knows that while from some other young officer, such an offer might have been an attempt to ingratiate himself, to win a favor, or use the closeness to further their advances in the rank, Hamilton wouldn’t do it even if Washington offered; the young man deflects all his attempts at fatherly closeness others welcome, so determined to succeed on his own merit that he refuses what this merit brings him in terms of friendship of those above him.

Still, Washington declines his offer that day. And doesn’t even think about accepting until the cold went worse, and Hamilton starts coughing softly into a handkerchief, away from the letters he was working on, and the hot water bottle Washington’s servant is putting into his bed grows cold before he even falls asleep, and Hamilton’s friends are sent off to various destinations, leaving him without a bedmate…

It just makes sense, one stormy night, not to send Hamilton off to his own tent, but to remind him of his offer, and to lead the young man, already drooping from fatigue, to his bed, and to take place next to him under the blankets and coats piled for warmth. Half-dressed still, back to back, as men do.

It makes sense the next night, too. And the one after that.

And if the general extends his offer to sharing dinners, however scarce, and wine, however sour - well, the winter is cruel, and solitude is hard when the weight of the war is on your shoulders.

But with shared dinners come lips dark with red wine, eyes glossy with spirits, conversation more liberal than sobriety would allow. The looks from under the long lashes, the little smiles that Washington feels would be out of place in the bigger company. A pink tongue taking away a drop from the corner of the mouth, a crumb from a slender finger. Jokes and words exchanged that Washington isn’t sure how to understand - as casual conversation, or as a carefully chosen path he’s being offered.

And so the night comes when his young bedmate takes his place under the blankets and drops his head not on the pillow, but on Washington’s shoulder, forgetting himself, too loose from the drink, or from the fatigue, or from both. He jumps right up, of course, murmuring apologies, wide eyes shiny and scared. Washington tries to hush him, says "Go to sleep, son," reaches out to touch his shoulder, push him back. Hamilton frowns, shakes his head - and Washington’s palm finds his cheek instead, a thumb just against a corner of his mouth.

The shaky sigh they both let out fills the moment with tension.

Next second, Hamilton moves just a fraction closer with his entire body, and his lips open just a bit more, so that Washington can feel the moist inside. And a moment later, a quick touch of the tongue, there and gone again. He chases it, pushes inside before he can stop himself. Hamilton lowers his lashes and just... lets him. Takes him in, meets him with his tongue.

This is his undoing.

For a long minute, he just thrusts into this hot sleek mouth, enthralled, watching the way Hamilton’s eyelashes flutter, his pink tongue playing chase. Washington doesn't know how he himself looks, mouth half open and eyes dark and intense. But Hamilton sees it and shivers in anticipation of both pleasure and fear.

This slight shiver, felt only because they are so incredibly close, wakes Washington from his reverie, and he draws in a gulp of air, tried to pull away. Hamilton catches his arm with a small sound, covers with his own palm, cradling to his cheek. His eyes fly open, dark, asking for something Washington can't give, shouldn't give, can't _not_ give to him.

He should say something but his throat is parched. He licks his lips. It's a wrong move. Because Hamilton smiles, slow and sly, and lets his hand go to reach for his mouth instead, to run a gentle finger along the bottom lip, asking permission with a look while already moving closer.

He doesn't kiss Washington, not really. His lips touch the corner of his mouth for a brief moment, and then move away, to his cheek, his neck, emboldened and skilled, searching for the other's pleasure. His palm drops to the general’s wide chest, warm through the undershirt he wears to bed, even though usually Hamilton's extremities are cool, he gets cold easily. He moves closer, plasters himself to Washington's side, almost rolls on top of him, and them moves again, flexing fluidly and ceaselessly.

Washington's famous force of will leaves him at the first touch, and he is frozen under the caress, only capable to trace his thumb over a soft cheek (Hamilton still doesn't need to shave very often), then to wrap one hand around slim shoulders, another around narrow waist. He should push Hamilton away - but he cannot. Not when the young man is peppering his neck and his chest in the open collar with kisses and nips and a light touch of teeth from time to time. Not when, at the unsure embrace, he makes a pleased sound that goes to Washington's very core, a blast of warmth, and then curves his back into it.

He could guess that Hamilton would be skilled, his prowess is well-known, although only his triumphs over ladies are discussed, of course. But if he does to the ladies what he does to Washington now, literally and metaphorically, than he should be the general in love as Washington is in war.

He pushes himself higher up to gain leverage, and his palms smooth over Washington's chest and shoulders and ribs, fingers clawing gently and curling over muscles in excitement that doesn't have to be seen to be known. His mouth never stops - a very Hamilton condition - but now it encourages not politics or fights but pleasure setting Washington's entire body aflame. General's hand finds its way into his hair, silky strands curling around his fingers, and Hamilton smiles against his skin and rubs against his palm as a cat.

Washington finds his voice, surprisingly, when Hamilton's fingers find his nipple, circling it through the fabric. "Lieutenant-Colonel", he says, going for stern, bringing up rank. But Hamilton just looks at him, sly but also sure, and shakes his head, hair still in Washington's grasp, and then puts two ink-stained fingers over his lips, a gesture so impertinent that it renders Washington speechless again. He tries to turn away, free himself from the touch; but instead, slender fingers tug his lips open, slide into his mouth, and automatically he takes them in, bites onto the tips.

Hamilton gasps audibly, his eyes wide.

The salty taste of skin awakens something in Washington, and he bites harder, his arms close tighter around the slender frame. Hamilton's eyes flutter shut, and then open again, his gaze darker and full of heat. He makes a throaty sound and presses closer, slipping one knee over Washington's thigh, and Washington's hands follow his body, holding him tighter. His fingers flex in the dark hair, palm heavy, and Hamilton gasps again, softly, bends his neck, as if asking for more. His fingers tremble between Washington's lips, and he lets them go, but catches them again immediately, suddenly thirsty for their taste and feel.

Hamilton drops his head back to Washington's neck, his kisses now faster, bites stronger. His fingers in Washington's mouth are playful, catching on his lips, running away from his tongue, chasing back. Washington holds him close, runs his hands along his back, shoulder blades sharp under the fabric; gasps at the caresses Hamilton covers his skin with. He was never under so much attention, it being the ladies' prerogative; but the way Hamilton does it feels different, as if he's both teasing and worshipping him. Intoxicating.

But despite the pleasure the young man lavishes upon him, Washington finds that he wants to see his face, his eyes more. He tugs carefully on the locks his fingers are tangled in; Hamilton raises his head immediately, with unexpected obedience and unexpected sound, deep in his throat, full of heat. His hips rock forward, bringing his manhood into contact with Washington's thigh. Bringing reality of what's happening into the light.

He's in bed with a man, with an officer under his command, who could be his son, against all rules he ever had in his life, against the law of men and God. He was never one to give into temptation, never gave any lady except from his wife more than a fleeting thought, an idle fantasy spooked soon by the business at hand. As for the men, the young boys like Hamilton, always around, so eager to please... No, never.

His embrace relaxes, hands ready to push the boy away. He forces slender fingers out of his mouth, opens it for firm words.

But Hamilton uses his freedom to roll on top of him fully, slight frame not a burden at all, and rocks into him, his manhood brushing the mirror firmness of Washington, bringing gasps out of both men.

Hamilton is impossible. This whole situation is impossible. Still, Washington tries, despite his suddenly awakened body asking for nothing more but the continuation of the touch. He brings the firmness of command into his voice as much as he can.

"Hamilton, you forget yourself." An underestimation, sure. But it would be enough for any other man, in any other time and place.

Not for Hamilton.

He looks down at Washington, thick hair falling in a halo around his face, the heat in his gaze now determined like before the battle. "I might, your excellency," he drawls with another roll, the little bastard. Washington puts his hands on his shoulders but can't push him away fast enough, Hamilton grasps his shirt with fingers like claws and holds on.

"No!" he exclaims in throaty whisper. "No. I insist."

"Insist? " Washington says incredulously. The nerve! But Hamilton shakes his head.

"Yes. Please, let me," his eyes go soft, but the voice is stubborn. "Please, sir. For your pleasure, and mine." With that, he rocks again, and leans down, preventing any other words from Washington by covering his mouth with a kiss.

He tastes like wine, cheap because they’ve run out of all good stuff weeks ago, but he makes it taste like the best French years when he licks his way into Washington's mouth, nips at his lips with sharp teeth. Nothing feminine in this, Hamilton takes over his defenses like he does on a battlefield. To him, Washington yields.

This is not a defeat but retreat; he recuperates from shock, and his hands tighten on Hamilton's shoulders. But the boy moans into his mouth, presses closer, and what should have been a push becomes an embrace, as Washington holds him closer still, and pushes back with his tongue and lips instead, attacks his mouth.

Hamilton lets him in like a fallen city, with a sweet moan and a full body shudder.

This is the first time Washington saw Hamilton surrender without a fight. The boy's stubbornness will be the death of him one day, although Washington tries to postpone this day as long as possible. But here, now, his mouth welcomes the general, pliant and warm, his tongue invites him playfully in.

And then takes him captive, body and soul.

Washington buries his hands in the silky hair, wraps around slim waist, giving in to the temptation; but now, the reality of what he's doing is tangible, almost overwhelming. Hamilton is slight in his arms, almost delicate, but unmistakably male, with boyishly tart and musky scent, sharp bones and wiry muscles and hot firmness next to Washington's own. He is a boy, one of Washington's boys, his own; care and possessiveness swell up in him, and he kisses deeper and holds tighter and lets his feelings out in a long low moan.

Hamilton echoes him, but with a pleading note, and his hips jerk forward.

After a long minute, Washington weakens his hold to catch a breath and to look into Hamilton's face. His cheeks are burning, his eyes misty and dark, a smile on his lips.

"Alexander," Washington says, hoarse, the name slipping from his tongue instead of the surname or the rank, giving away the impending defeat before the terms of surrender are even discussed.

"Yes, sir," the boy exhales with a questioning look. So eager to please, this boy, despite holding a facade of a self-sufficient man. And so ready to go against orders and rules for what he thinks is right. A contradiction.

Washington shakes his head. "I didn't let you in my bed for this... " he starts. Hamilton - Alexander huffs at him, all etiquette forgotten.

"With all due respect, your excellency, I didn't come to your bed for this," he states, his voice still slightly breathless. "Not at first. But sir..."

His eyes are sincere and stubborn. Washington knows this look: Hamilton is ready to plead his case. He sees this every battle when Alexander asks him for a command. Refusal is always hard.

Still, he says sternly, "Go, Alexander. Go to your own bed."

Hamilton cocks his head, bites his lip. And says,

"No."

Washington is taken aback. He could expect pleas and reasoning; but a straightforward refusal? "Disobeying a direct order?" he raises his voice slightly. Hamilton looks nervous for a second, but then his gaze becomes even more determined.

"I do," he announces, and smiles.

Washington can taste this smile when Hamilton leans in for another kiss, demanding and wicked.

Gathering his will, Washington still shakes his head, still tries to move him away. Alexander clings to him, whispers hotly, into his skin. "No, sir, no. Do you really want me to go? Is it the law, or the faith? It's not your desire, I know that much. I saw the way you look at me; I knew you'd never ask, but here I am, giving freely."

"Alexander... " Washington groans as the boy dismantles every argument he haven't even made. Too clever for his own good, this Hamilton.

"You wouldn't punish your men who engage in this intimacies," he says sliding his lips against general's neck. "Will you punish yourself? Will you punish me, sending me away, all aflame, into the cold night?" he rocks into Washington's hip, still firm. "Or is it because you have command over me, like that man you did send away?" He laughs and pushes himself up, looking at Washington. "Your excellency. Here, the command is mine."

Washington shivers at that, and the little devil smiles slowly and wickedly.

"Oh, yes, sir," he drawls, emboldened. "The command is mine. I have come to you, and I have touched you, and now I command you to give yourself to me, as you and I both desire." He runs a small palm over Washington chest and to his cheek, cups it in a gentle caress. "Do you yield, sir?"  he asks, low, seductive.

Who could say no?

Washington clenches his jaw in the last attempt to refuse. But Alexander leans in, and kisses him sweetly, almost chaste, and he is the first to open his lips and reach for the boy.

The defeat is sweeter than any victory.

Alexander is gentle like a woman but strong like a man, skilled, knowing. Washington hasn't spent as much time in other people's beds in his entire life as Alexander seems to in his young years, never saw much interest in carnal pleasures. Even in marriage, his love to Martha, though deep as the sea, is more of the heart than of the body, starting with agreement not passion, and with so much time spent away. But Alexander awakens something in him that makes him consider for the first time Martha's permission to seek other company in his travels. And so he does, tentative at first, hands unsure on the narrow back, and then stronger, pressing his fingers into the flesh, dragging the shirt up to reach the hot skin underneath.

Oh, how beautiful is Alexander's moan at the first touch.

"Yesss," he hisses arching into the touch. Washington scratches at his skin with saber-calloused fingers, and he hums happily, closing his eyes, nesting closer. His hands dance cleverly over Washington's body, finding places he didn't know existed, slowly tugging the fabric up and up until they flatten on his naked stomach.

"Oh," they both say almost simultaneously, Alexander with reverence, Washington surprised at his reaction, his abdomen rippling under the touch. Next moment, Alexander pushes himself up, full of familiar energy, their layers of blankets and coats pooling around them. He tugs Washington's shirt up, and gasps, enthralled, licking his lips unconsciously. His hands follow the strong abdomen and wide chest, and so does his gaze.

Under this focus, Washington is flushed with heat, in comparison to which the previous flames were but a spark. Nevertheless, he has enough control left to hurry and tug the blankets back over Alexander's shoulders. Used to the West Indian sun, thin and hungry, the boy suffers from cold mercilessly, although he doesn't seem to notice it now. But under the weight of the fabric, he leans down, smiling delightfully, and then straddles Washington's hips. Leans even more, licking a long line across his chest. Washington gasps and arches under him, and his smile grows bigger, crooked and predatory.

Then, the sweet torture begins.

Alexander's fingers and mouth are both gentle and cruel, eliciting responses Washington never knew he's capable of. He reaches to the boy, grasps at his shoulders, his hair, sometimes trying in vain to stop him, sometimes encouraging. When his fingers slip too close to Alexander's mouth the boy nips and sucks at them; when Washington grasps his wrists once his eyes go dark, his mouth slack, and it takes a moment for him to free himself, murmuring "maybe next time."

Washington doubts he'll survive till next time.

He comes to his senses again when Alexander's kisses go down his abdomen, hands slip to his breeches, strained by flesh. He grasps blindly, and catches the boy's hair, eliciting a sharp gasp and a long moan.

"What are you doing, boy? " his voice is hoarse. Alexander looks up at him from beneath the blankets, only his eyes shining in the dark and his smile glistening.

"Can't soil you breeches, sir," he responds cheekily, and in a few moves opens them up. "Ah! Excellency indeed," he licks his lips.

Washington never knew anyone so debauched and so irresistible.

Then Alexander lowers his head, and Washington arches in surprise, crying out.

"Hush", Alexander says, and sucks at him again, swallows him as if his life depends on it. His mouth is skilled in speech, but his eloquence pales in comparison to this. Washington thrusts, unable to control himself; the boy rides it with him, only hums in pleasure and scratches at his thigh.

It is over too fast, between Alexander's skill and Washington's inexperience. In the end, he grasps the boy's hair, and Alexander moans around him, long and deep, and the vibration brings him over the edge.

And then the boy swallows his release, as if hungry for it. Washington thinks his heart will stop.

Then it thumps again, fast. He is breathing heavily, his entire body a boneless weight. Alexander, on the other hand, is moving, rocking and flexing under the blankets, every movement followed by a moan. Washington calls for him, and he blinks, looking up. Washington reaches out a hand. "Come here, boy."

In a flash, Alexander is plastered at his side, lean and hot, restless. His eyes are now pleading, and this sight breaks Washington's heart while a-flaming his loins despite his recent pleasure. "Please," Alexander whispers, high as a whine. "Please, sir. Your hand..."

Washington looks down and sees Alexander's member in his own fist, moving up and down frantically. Without thinking, he takes the boy's hand away by the wrist - Alexander whimpers - and wraps his palm around the searing hot flesh. It feels like velvet over steel.

"Oh, sir! " Alexander cries out, his eyes closing and flattering open again, searching for Washington's face every time.  "Oh, your excellency, sir, yes, please, yes... "

He spills over Washington's palm, at the very last moment closing his own over it to catch the drops. And slumps, spent, cheek on Washington's shoulder, as when they started.

After a moment, Washington wraps one clean hand around him, and Alexander sighs happily.

Oh, what this small sigh does to the general’s heart.

Hamilton doesn't stay still for long, though, finding energy again. Still holding his palm over Washington's, he searches with the other for his handkerchief in the pocket of the coat thrown over their blanket. Bringing their joined hands up, Alexander kisses Washington's knuckles and then starts cleaning, carefully and thoroughly.

Washington takes his hand away before he can fully finish. Brings it to his lips. And, after a moment of hesitation, tastes his soiled fingers.

Alexander shudders with a gasp, as if hit with a second release.

The taste is... Probably acquired. Washington thinks he might acquire it.

Alexander finishes the clean up, but then stills, half-sitting next to him. Washington frowns and raises to one elbow. Alexander looks at him from under his lashes.

"Sir. Would you prefer me to leave now? " he asks, all boldness gone.

 _Why would I?_ Washington wants to ask, bewildered, but stops to consider. A man he just had a... congress with, who has been staying in his bed for weeks. All sense and all propriety say, send him away, save what remains.

But sense and propriety have been gone since that first kiss.

"Stay with me", he says softly, lowering himself back and to the side, space left for the smaller frame. Alexander nods, visibly relieved, eyes glittering from behind a wavy lock of hair. He looks shy, but also coy. Beautiful.

Finally, he curls next to the general, fussing for a moment, nesting in the blankets. Sighs, restless.

"Your excellency", he calls softly.

Washington looks down at the head almost tucked under his chin.

"Yes, my boy? "

Alexander doesn’t reply for a long moment.

"Would you like me to come tomorrow?" he asks.

Washington takes his time with his answer. But in the end, he drapes a hand over the boy's waist and says "Yes."


End file.
